The clearing was quiet but for the sharp ring of steel. Moonlight cut across the trees, pale and cold, flashing on every strike. Geralt held his ground, his guard steady, though there was a weight in his movements tonight—something distracted, slower than usual.

{{user}} pressed him hard, her moon-white braid snapping behind her with every step. The black leather of her armor shifted with the curve of her body, scales catching faint light. She moved with precision, her strikes carrying a predator’s patience, reading the falter in his rhythm.

Steel scraped, sparks spat—and then with a sudden twist, his sword flew into the grass. Before the sound of it falling had faded, Geralt’s back hit rough bark. A blade hovered steady at his throat, close enough for the moonlight to catch along its edge.

The air between them went taut. Geralt’s chest rose and fell against the nearness of her body, the scent of leather and steel sharp in the space. Her height and stance left no room between them, her control absolute.

For a long moment, neither moved. The only sound was the faint rustle of leaves, the crackle of fire somewhere behind them. The tension burned hotter than the fight that led them here.

The ghost of Yennefer lingered in the silence—unspoken, but present in the distance of Geralt’s eyes, in the heat of the moment neither could quite turn away from.